Road House: Dalton's Magical Christmas Adventure
by rmsthornton
Summary: Christmas is in trouble and Santa Claus needs help to save it! Luckily, there is one person who can. His name is Dalton, the legendary bouncer from the Double Deuce.
1. Chapters 1 & 2

**Road House: Dalton's Magical Christmas Adventure**

 **By R. M. S. Thornton**

 _Chapter 1: Crisis in the Kremlin_

It was Christmas Day, December 25, 1991. For many around the world, it was a day to rejoice, as families and friends gathered together to celebrate this most festive occasion, to offer their good tidings and cheer. Yet the elation which almost always accompanied the holiday season was absent in one part of the world. Winter in Moscow was always harsh, but this year it was particularly brutal. It wasn't just that Christmas hadn't been officially celebrated since the overthrow of the Tsardom, although that certainty didn't help. No, what made this year's cold season especially bitter was the fact that at 7:32 PM, the Soviet flag, the symbol of Communism and the Bolshevik World Order, was permanently lowered from atop the Kremlin. Tomorrow it would be made official, as the Union's Supreme Soviet would vote to terminate both its existence as well as that of the Soviet Union. It had come to this. The once great Marxist Empire, founded by Lenin, a state which had stood triumphant against the Axis powers during the last World War, repulsing and defeating Hitler's mighty armies, a colossal superpower and global beacon of proletariat revolution, was gasping its last breath. It was not just the end of a nation, but the conclusion of an era. The Cold War was over. The Soviet Union had lost.

Yet for some, the fight was still not over, for despite this dismal state of affairs, a small group had gathered within the walls of the Kremlin, dedicated to carrying out one last hurrah—

a grand gesture which would inflict inconceivable destruction upon the West before the socialist State's last gasp.

"Close the door and sit down!" ordered a harsh voice from within the room.

The KGB officer nearest to the entrance complied and took a seat at the table facing the man who had given the command. The other KGB officer followed suit and sat next to his comrade.

The room was windowless, dark and cold. Although the officers were clad in thick winter coats, they shivered under the chamber's intense briskness. The man across the table was quite old with thinning white hair and wrinkles. He was dressed in all black and had a stern, intimidating look about him.

"Do you know why I called you both here?" he asked.

The men glanced at each other for a moment then looked back at their superior.

"No, sir," replied one. "We were just told by the Center that head of Clandestine Paramilitary Operations, Dimitri Staliv, demanded to speak to us immediately. So here we are, sir."

"Good," Dimitri replied.

He placed a cigarette in his mouth, removed a box of matches from his coat pocket, and lit it.

"Carlov. Frank. I requested your presence this evening because I require your assistance for an operation I've been planning."

"Excuse me, sir." Carlov uttered. "But I thought all current KGB operations had been cancelled."

Dimitri removed the cigarette from his mouth and slowly exhaled. The smoke rose steadily as it cut through the frigid air.

"Yes." He responded. "All official ongoing operations are on hold. However, this mission is, how you say it, 'off the books'. "

Dimitri took another puff of his cigarette.

"You see," he explained, "as you probably are well aware, tomorrow the Soviet Union will officially cease to exist. Our once proud nation will discontinue in its current form and will subsist only in the annals of history. But the way I see it, Comrades, is, if we are going to go down, why should we go down alone? Why not bring someone with us? For instance, the capitalist pigs who will soon reap the rewards of our demise."

"But, sir," said Frank, "with all due respect, how can we possibly take down the West? They are so powerful now and we are so weak."

Dimitri chuckled.

"That's easy, Frank." He replied. "We attack them where they are most vulnerable. We destroy the one thing they hold most dear; the thing which has become the symbol of their corrupt consumerist culture."

He took another wisp and exhaled.

"We attack Christmas!"

Carlov and Frank's mouths dropped. They gasped in shock.

"But...sir..." Carlov stuttered.

"Silence!" Dimitri interrupted. "The Americans are a day behind us. It's still Christmas Eve there. But when they wake up tomorrow morning and there is no Christmas, they will be devastated and not know what to do. Then the entire world shall see them for the weak cowards they truly are."

Dimitri stood up.

"Come Carlov, Frank! We must make haste! There is a party happening at the North Pole! We don't want to be late, do we!?"

 _Chapter 2: Christmas Eve at the Double Deuce_

The faint noise of live music blares in the foreground of the dirt parking lot, muffled by the roaring motors of fancy hotrods and Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Dust flickers in the warm night air as patrons come and go from this lively establishment. The Double Deuce, a nightclub located in a seemingly sleepy little Missouri town, is one of the most popular nighttime getaways in the State. It's an amalgamation of people all of walks of life: bikers, cowboys, lawyers, gamblers, bachelorettes, all gathered together to celebrate at one, single venue. From blue collar workers looking to relax following a strenuous day's work, to wealthy playboys hoping to score some late night female companionship, the Double Deuce is a true microcosm of American society— a reminder that despite outward differences, divergent convictions, and socio-economic standings, there remains at least one fundamental characteristic shared by all conscious beings. That is the desire to seek pleasure, to acquire whatever it is, whether palpable or intangible, which instruct our brains to undergo the chemical process responsible for triggering elation and glee. For veiled within the aroma of alcohol, smoke, vomit, and broken dreams, is that imperceptible, yet very real emotion we all yearn for—happiness.

However, such a pursuit of euphoria amid so many bodies crammed into a single location, although seemingly innocent, can quickly erupt into alcohol infused, primordial free-for-all. And that's where HE comes in, the man responsible for insuring the safety of all who enter his bar, he who can stomp out any violent or illicit occurrences before they spiral out of control, a bouncer renowned nationwide. Though small in stature, his skills in combat and straight up badassery are second to none. With a rough and tumble nature, yet intelligent and wise, he holds a bachelor's degree in philosophy from NYU as well as a PhD in kicking ass. His name is Dalton.

Dalton stood with his back nestled against the bar. He was dressed in his usual outfit, a plain black tee-shirt tucked into blue jeans. His blonde hair was long and somewhat unkempt. Yet despite his somewhat shabby appearance, Dalton gave off a solemn and serene aura. The music blared as his head bobbed slowly to its rhythm. The song finished. Dalton glanced up. The red and green Christmas lights hung across the ceiling added a certain pleasant, festive feel to the local watering hole. With all the bullshit currently plaguing the world, Dalton found solace in the holiday spirit and the joys it fostered. He reminisced about Christmases long ago, the ones he experienced as a child, the ones he'd shared with former lovers, family, and friends. There Dalton remained, lost in thought, trapped in a prism of nostalgia and self-reflection.

Suddenly, he heard a noise. He turned and looked. The commotion was coming from a table across the room. Four large men, in their late 30's to early 40's, were huddled around a small, circular table. They were bikers, clad in black leather jackets and dark pants. One of them, a hefty bald fellow with a goatee, was grasping the arm of a pretty young blonde woman in a red dress. She struggled to pull away from the man, but her attempts had little effect, as the man was considerably bigger and stronger.

"Come here, Baby!" he bellowed in a deep, scratchy voice. "I'm gonna make you my regular Christmas Eve thing!"

"Get off of me!" The woman demanded as she struggled to no avail.

"HAHAHA!" The man laughed.

He yanked her towards him and grasped her with both his hands, forcing her to fall into his lap.

"Come on, Darling!" he roared in her ear as he began to grope her right breast. "It's almost Christmas! Give old Spikey a little holiday cheer!"

He began to lift up her dress with his other hand as she continued to try pry herself free.

Dalton advanced towards the table. He stood across from the man.

"I think it's time you fellas leave," he said.

The man stopped and looked up at Dalton.

"Come on," he said. "We're just having some fun."

He stroked her hair and placed his mouth close to her cheek.

"Aren't we, Princess?"

She was uncomfortable and terrified.

"You boys have worn out your welcome," Dalton remarked. "Let the girl go and get out."

The man glared at Dalton.

"Who the fuck do you think you are giving us orders!?" he thundered.

"Well, not fat and ugly, that's for sure." Dalton replied.

With that, the man threw the woman to the floor and stood up. His cohorts followed suit. They all towered over Dalton, especially their leader who was at least six foot six inches and around 300 lbs.

He tossed the table aside as he stepped towards Dalton. Dalton didn't flinch. The man was now inches from him, peering down at the tiny bouncer.

"You fucking little bitch!" he yelled. "You think you can talk to us like that and get away with it?!"

He grabbed Dalton's shirt with his right hand.

"You listen to me you little cock sucker! I..."

In what appeared to be an instance, Dalton torpedoed his left arm and wrapped it around the man's wrist. He then pivoted on his right and hit the man with a well-placed left kick to the outer side of the man's right knee. The man crouched down in pain; and when his head was about eye level, Dalton struck him with a vicious right hook to the temple.

The impact was so great that the man instantly hit the floor, out cold. One of his friends then pulled a switch blade. He swiped it at Dalton and braised his left shoulder. Blood gushed from the wound. He came at Dalton again, this time in a stabbing motion. Dalton bobbed to his left and caught the man's arm. Dalton then hit him with two front kicks to the stomach and one to the face. He then struck the man in the back of the knee with a left and tossed him to the ground. The two other men stepped back in shock.

"How could anyone, especially this tiny unassuming guy, be so powerful...so fast!?" they wondered silently.

"Now," Dalton said, "you can either leave now of your own freewill or we can keep doing this the hard way. Your choice."

The men glanced at each other then back at Dalton.

"Ok, Man!" one of them uttered as he strode back and raised his palms. "We're cool!"

With that, the three men woke up their passed out friend and assisted him out of the bar.

Dalton then approached the woman and gave her his hand. She took it and he helped her up. She smiled at him. Dalton nodded and returned back to the bar.

The hours passed and finally it was last call. The bar emptied. Dalton put on his coat, wished his coworkers a goodnight and a Merry Christmas, then left. He arrived home at 3:00 A.M. and found his wife, Dr. Elizabeth Clay, still awake. She had just returned from her shift and looked exhausted. She peered up and beamed at him. Dalton felt the warmth of her gaze and was instantly struck with a sense of elation. Dalton always knew that matter how long or rough the night, or how much bullshit he'd have to put up with from intoxicated assholes, that once he returned home, all his aggravations and furies would immediately dissipate beneath the wondrous glow of her smile.

She strolled towards him and collapsed into her husband's arms. He clutched her and rested his head on hers. He felt warm and safe, as if every care Dalton carried had been released into the abyss of life. Dr. Clay began rubbing his arm, then pulled back, noticing something.

"Dalton," she said examining the tear in his sleeve, "what happened?"

She inserted her fingers into the slit and felt the Band-Aid patch.

"Jesus, Dalton!" she shrieked.

She scurried into the bathroom and retuned with a first aid kit. She perched herself on an arm of the couch and opened the bag. She removed some string and a needle.

"Take your shirt off and sit down," she commanded.

Her husband complied without question. She threaded the string thru the needle.

"This is going to be painful, Dalton," Dr. Clay warned.

"Pain don't hurt," Dalton casually replied.

She finished stitching and cut the remaining thread. She then cleaned off the remaining blood with an alcohol swab

"I'm warning you, Dalton," she remarked, "If you don't slow down, you're going to live a difficult life when you get older."

Dalton glanced up at her.

"That's why I have such beautiful, loving wife—so she can take care of me when I'm old and decrepit."

Dalton smiled and she followed suit. They kissed. Dr. Clay fell into his lap, placed her arms around him, and nestled her head into his chest. Dalton held her and softly kissed the top of her head.

"I don't want you to ever worry about me," he told her, "because no matter what happens, I will always..."

A loud crash came from the kitchen. Dalton and Dr. Clay shot up.

"What was that!?" asked Dr. Clay.

"I have no clue." replied Dalton. "Stay here."

Dalton advanced slowly towards the kitchen. He could hear something clamoring against the pots and pans. Dalton jolted himself into a "ready for a fight" stance. Then he saw it. It was...an elf!

Sitting among the scattered kitchen appliances was a small man, at the most 4 feet tall, with pointy ears and dressed in green and red. He had blond hair that was covered by a green stocking cap.

"Sorry to startle you!" The elf exclaimed as he got up. "My name is Cubit. As you can probably tell, I'm an elf."

"Hello Cubit. I'm Dalton."

"Oh, I know who are." Cubit said. "You're Dalton. The world's greatest bouncer! That's why we are here, actually, to talk to you."

"Wait..." Dalton remarked. "We?"

"Oh, I'm sorry! I forgot to introduce my friend! Meet Rubtub!"

Cubit gestured to an object next to him. It was massive acorn, about the size of a bowling ball. But that was not its only peculiarity. It had arms and legs, both thin and black and measuring about a foot long, as well as a face: giant oval eyes, a mouth, and a nose. It also exhibited a thick dark mustache and eyebrows. It looked almost like a Mr. Potato Head, but slightly different due to trade mark infringement laws. It sported a red, flat brim cowboy hat which had a small white ribbon encircling its crown covered his pointy top.

"Hi, Dalton!" he chirped with a countryesque accent. "I'm Rubtub! I'm the rootinest tootinest acorn in the North Pole!"

Dalton stared at Rubtub, perplexed, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing before him.

"Ok." he said. "Anyways, you said you were looking for me. Why?"

"It's Santa Claus!" Replied Cubit. "Christmas is in danger and you're the only one who can help him! He told me to come down here and ask for your assistance. "

"Well, if Santa needs my help," Dalton stated, "I'm of course happy to be of assistance!"

"Hooray, hooray!" Cubit chanted.

Dalton jogged back into the living room where his wife waiting anxiously.

"I have to leave," he announced to his wife

"But, Dalton," she exclaimed. "it's Christmas Eve!"

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth." he said, "but Santa Claus needs my help. I can't refused a request from him on Christmas Eve, especially when Christmas itself may be at risk."

Dalton leaned in, positioned his arms around her waist, and then gently pulled her close. She wrapped her arms around his neck. He kissed her.

"I have to go." He told her.

Dalton released her and hustled towards the front door where Cubit and Rubtub were waiting.

"Dalton!" She called as he clamored towards the exit. He turned around.

"I love you. Please be careful!"

"I love you too, Elizabeth. Don't worry about me. I'll come home in one piece, I promise!"

With that, Dalton, Cubit and Rubtub scurried out of the house.

"Holy tarnation!" Rubtub hollered glaring at his wristwatch. "We need to hurry or we're gonna be late!"

"Late for what?" asked Dalton.

"The Holiday Express." Cubit answered. "It's how we're getting to the North Pole."

"YEEHA!"Rubtub shouted. "North Pole here we come!"


	2. Chapters 3 & 4

**Road House: Dalton's Magical Christmas Adventure**

 **By R. M. S. Thornton**

 _Chapter 3: Rumble on the Railroad_

The Holiday Express is a mystical locomotive shrouded in Christmas spirit, soaked in the good tidings and euphoria of all those who were privileged to step foot upon it. Each year it transports thousands of lucky, wide-eyed, well-behaved children up North to visit Christmas Village, see Santa's workshop, and, of course, meet jolly old Kris Kringle himself. Yet, there is another train which is involved in exactly the same enterprise. But despite their slight similarities in name and business practices, the two rail lines have absolutely no affiliation with one another, especially with regards to any possible copyright issues.

The Holiday Express zipped through the frost ridden forests and mountainous hinterlands of the North. Despite the heavy snowfall, made all the more rigorous by the fierce winds which accompanied it, the train's red and green coating sparkled against the clear night sky. The corridors of the locomotive, eloquent and decorative, were plush cushioned seats supported by magnificent gold frames. An aroma of sweets, chestnuts, and apple cider prevailed throughout the train's compartments, which were lively with the screams and elations of scores children anxiously awaiting their arrival. Indeed, the joy and innocence which remained ever prevalent on the Holiday Express helped mask the pervasive creepiness associated with hundreds of small children being lured out of their homes without parental consent and trafficked to a remote location thousands of miles from the slightest sign civilization.

Dalton stood in one of the few, mostly deserted, train cars. He was perspiring heavily, throwing a barrage of kicks into the empty air. Crouched in the corner sat a boy no more than 9, clad in blue jeans, a thick red snow jacket, and gloves made of yarn with a matching red, puff-ball hat. He stared in awe, observing this remarkable, physical feat.

After about 10 minutes, he finally worked up enough confidence to approach the bouncer.

"Excuse me, Mister," the boy said.

Dalton stopped and turned to him.

"Hey there," he replied.

Dalton picked up a towel from one of the seats and wiped the sweat from his arms and face.

"You're Dalton, aren't you?" The boy asked.

"You're correct," responded Dalton.

"Wow," the boy exclaimed as he stared at Dalton in bewilderment. "You're that bouncer from Missouri! I've heard all about you! You've won so many fights!"

Dalton chuckled.

"No one ever wins a fight, kid," he said. "Fighting in dangerous. Someone always get hurt."

"I guess you're right," the boy admitted. "I'm Timmy, by the way! It's very nice to meet you!"

"Hi Timmy," replied Dalton. "It's very nice to meet you, too"

"What were you doing earlier?" the boy inquired. "I mean, with the kicking and stuff?"

"Oh," Answered Dalton, "I was practicing. You see, there is a special move I've been trying to master. It's called the Christmas Kick. It's one of the most powerful kicks of all time. It's essentially a spinning round house in which the kickers harnesses the power of the Christmas Spirit and unleashes a ferocious strike so powerful that it can shatter an inch cylinder of pure steel."

"Wowwww!" Timmy said. "Do you know anyone who has ever done it?"

"Only one. His name was Wade Garret. He was my old mentor. Taught me everything I know."

"Amazing! What ever happened to him?" Timmy asked.

Dalton's face sunk slightly as he crumpled the towel in his hand.

"He's gone now."

Timmy dropped his head and glanced at the floor.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Dalton remarked. "He was a good man."

Dalton glanced out the train window. They were approaching a bridge over a crystal clear blue lake. Dalton heard the door behind him open. He turned around and looked. Cubit and Rubtub walked in.

"We're not far now." Cubit informed them. "Once we cross the lake, it should only be about another 20 minutes or so."

"Good!" Dalton remarked tossing the towel on the seats.

The train was passing over the bridge when it abruptly stopped.

"What in Rosie O'Donnell's Britches!?" Rubtub cried. "Why have we stopped!?"

"And in the middle of bridge!" Cubit added, peering out the window.

The front door of the compartment opened. A man in an all gray uniform rushed in.

"Dalton," he screamed panting, "we're under attack! I don't know what they are, but they're on the roof of the train!"

Dalton darted towards the door.

"Cubit, Rubtub," he asserted, "you guys come with me. Timmy, stay here."

"But..." Timmy began to clamor after him.

Dalton turned. "No, Timmy! Stay here! It's too dangerous."

Timmy's shoulders sunk. Dalton flipped back around and exited the car. He noticed a black ladder on the outside of the next compartment. He climbed it and the others followed.

They reached the top and scanned the area. There were several creatures near the front of the locomotive. They were small, furry and gray. Despite their lack of pants, they looked frightening in their green Soviet army jackets and green ushankas, which sported metal-red and gold sickle-and-hammers on the hats.

The creatures turned and saw the three heroes. They charged, advancing at them on all fours with rapid speed, easily hurdling the gaps between the cars.

"What in Joan Rivers' knapsack are those things!?" Rubtub howled.

"They're raccoons!" Cubit replied.

"They're not just any raccoons." Added Dalton. "They're Soviet KGB Rodent Infiltrators; specially trained to wreak havoc and chaos. They tried to stir up trouble at the Deuce a few years back."

Dalton assumed his fighter's stance. The raccoons were within only 50 yards now and closing fast.

Behind me, "Dalton ordered the others, "I'll take it from here."

The first raccoon lunged at them, to which Dalton greeted it with a carefully placed right front kick to the chin. It flew backwards.

Dalton then rotated back around and struck the next raccoon with a carefully aimed left jabjab to the snout. He then pivoted on his left foot and hit another varmint with a powerful roundhouse to the body. It went soaring off the side of the train.

"Dalton, look out!" Cubin yelled.

A raccoon had snuck up behind Dalton. It swiped his back, tearing his shirt and penetrating his skin. Blood gushed from Dalton's back as he groaned from the pain. He turned counter-clockwise and met his assailant with a vicious backhand. It spun around like a top, then rolled off the side of the roof.

"Holy Mel Gibson's watering hole –look!" Rubtub hollered, pointing off the side of the bridge.

Dalton glanced down. Several more raccoons were approaching from the water, only these were riding dolphins.

"They're on Ukrainian Subterfuge Dolphins!" Cubit shouted!

They got alarmingly closer. The top of the bridge was only about 200 yards above the water, an easy jump for a Ukrainian Subterfuge Dolphin.

The dolphins soared out of the water. As they flew, Dalton could make out cylinder shaped metal objects protruding from their heads. A laser beam shot from one of them. Dalton dodged it as it zoomed by, and a small explosion occurred when it hit on the roof.

Dalton welcomed this cetacean adversary with a roundhouse to the face. He then used the momentum of his kick to rotate back around and hit another racoon with a powerful right cross to its beak.

One of the raccoons flung itself off the dolphin towards Dalton. He dodged it, catching it by the tale. Dalton swung it around and threw it off the side of the car. It's abandoned dolphin plopped on the top of the train with a loud thud.

"Fuck you, fish mammal!" Dalton yelled as kicked the sea beast which went spiraling into the air and back into the water.

The remaining raccoons quickly retreated. Cubit and Rubtub let out a sigh of relief.

"That was a close one." Cubit said. "Good job, Dalton! You truly are the real deal."

"Same shit, different town." Dalton shrugged.

The three heroes climb down. They were immediately met by the conductor, who was clad in a blue uniform with gold buttons, round spectacles, and a blue hat.

"Thank you, Dalton." Said the Conductor. "Because of you, the children and the train are safe."

"My pleasure." Dalton responded.

"Well," the Conductor pronounced, "I guess we best be on our way."

"We're going to get off once we are on the bridge." Dalton announced.

"Wait...what?" the Conductor replied.

"Dalton," shouted Cubit, "you can't be serious!"

"We have no choice." Dalton retorted. "Those Soviet agents came for us. Our presence on the Express puts everyone else on it in danger. It's safer for everyone if the train goes on without us and we go on foot. You know the way, Cubit, right?"

"Of course I do!" he replied. "All we have to do is cut threw the Candy Cane Forest,then cross the Marshmallow Lake, and we're there!"

"Dalton, are you sure about this?" asked the Conductor.

"I'm positive." He affirmed. "Thank you for taking us this far. May the rest of your journey be safe."

The train moved off the bridge then stopped. Dalton, Cubit and Rubtub exited. The Express started up again. As it passed them, the children waved goodbye, with the heroes responding in kind. The locomotive steamed off into the distance.

"Alright." Said Rubtub. "Next stop, the Candy Cane Forest!"

 _Chapter 4: Snowman Melee_

The Candy Cane Forest is a wondrous, lush array of surgery sticks nestled within a deep snowy valley. Dalton had, of course, heard about this place; but seeing it firsthand was a spectacle unlike anything he'd ever witnessed. The candy canes were tall, thick, and a miscellaneous assortment of different color variations: red and white, blue and white, green and white, pink and white, etc. The canes were smooth and, minus some random composites of snow atop them, were spotless, almost as if they'd been polished with a dense coat of magical goodness. Although they lacked flashlights, the path through this enchanted ecosystem was clearly discernible as the canes glowed, reflecting the night sky, as the stars and full moon shown, unencumbered by manmade illuminations.

"Wow!" admired Dalton. "I've never seen a place so beautiful and so tranquil before."

"You say that now," Rubtub chimed in, "but we have got to keep our wits about us. We are entering snowman territory."

"Snowman territory?" Dalton said, perplexed.

"That's right." responded Rubtub. "This is Frosty's hood, and he don't take kindly to trespassers."

"Wait a minute..." remarked Dalton. "Frosty? You mean that friendly giant snowman with the gentle coal-black eyes who comes to life each Christmas and plays with children?"

"He's not so friendly anymore." Replied Cubit. "Several years ago Frosty went completely off the deep end. He stopped celebrating Christmas and instead condemned it, vowing to do whatever it took to destroy the so-called holiday. So he ran off and landed here in this section of the Candy Cane Forest with some of the other snowmen and formed snowman separatist society."

"Really?" Dalton exclaimed, totally bewildered by what he just heard.

"Yep." Cubit replied. "They call themselves the Antifa-Alt Snowmen Movement. They are, according to their broachers and other self-published literature, a "far- right, far-left, extreme centrist, radical feminist, Sunni/Shia Islamic fundamentalist organization which dabbles in Satanic rituals as well as other alternative sudo-religious/cultist practices, such as human sacrifice, cannibalism, and scrapbooking."

"Hhmmm." uttered Dalton. "You know, that actually, weirdly enough, makes sense."

They continued walking for a while, admiring the elegant scenery, until they heard a loud noise, similar to the bellow of a Viking horn.

The heroes scanned the area, and to their amazement, noticed that they were surrounded by snowmen. They were white, giant, snowballs, stacked one upon another: a bottom, a mid-section, and a head. They were all about Dalton's height, and had branch- like hands containing sharpened wood claws.

A larger snowman, standing about six feet tall, slid forward. He was wearing an old, black silk top hat. He had a corncob pipe and a button nose and two eyes made out of coal.

He spoke. "You are trespassing! This is snowman territory!"

"We're very sorry, Mr. Frosty." Cubit responded, slightly trembling. "We are just trying to get to Christmas Village."

"NEVER USE THE 'C' WORD HERE!" Frosty commanded.

"That so-called holiday is a farce ,a joke! It's a fake event, created by retailers and celebrated by the weak and feeble."

"We don't want to make any trouble." Dalton explained.

"Oh, too late, you got trouble!" Frosty roared. "You got trouble the moment you stepped foot in our forest! And now, it's time to pay!"

Frosty pointed at the heroes.

"SNOWMEN! ATTACK!"

A horde of snowmen advanced towards them. One came from Dalton's left and attempted to grab him. Dalton ducked, and upon rising, struck the iceman with a fierce right cross, exploding open his white head. He noticed another enemy charging from behind. Dalton gave him a taste of his boot with a left back kick to the unlucky fellow's midsection, causing it to dissipate and melt before their eyes

Another snowman began chucking hard snowballs at Dalton. He dodged the first one, then caught the second one and sent it right back to its maker. It smacked the snowman in the face, taking him down in the process.

The fight continued. The snowmen kept coming in waves, yet none of them were any match for Dalton, who kept dodging their blows and countering with perfectly timed punches and kicks with his feet, knees, and elbows.

"ENOUGH!" shouted Frosty. "You idiots can't even take down one man!"

Frosty reached inside his midsection and removed an all-metal, silver, four-foot long, double-headed battle ax.

"Everyone, stand back!" Frosty barked. "I will take care of this pipsqueak human myself."

The snowmen obeyed.

"You're gonnna die, Dalton!" he growled.

"Hey, Frosty the Snowman." Dalton chided." I suggest you hurry on your way. You better wave goodbye or I'm gonna make you cry melted tears after I fuck you up!

Frosty then charged at Dalton, coming at him with a vertical chop. Dalton leapt aside and missed it. He came at Dalton again, this time with a horizontal swipe. Dalton bent his torso back. He just grazed him. Dalton quickly recovered, striking Frosty with a side kick to the lower sector and then a jab,-cross-hook combo to the face. Frosty moved back. He glared at Dalton and snarled. He was furious.

He came at Dalton once more, this time swiping at his legs. Dalton jumped, and while midair, delivered a colossal right kick to the face. The blow was so powerful that it knocked Frosty's head clean off his mid-section Frosty dropped the ax and slid his torso over to his head. He picked it up and readjusted it on to his body

"Jesus, Frosty." Dalton remarked. "What the hell happened to you? You used to be a jolly, happy soul. Now you're just pissed off all the time. What's the deal?"

"What's the deal!?" he screamed. "The deal is that I was abandoned! Every Christmas, for years, children would always look forward to playing with me. 'I can't wait until the first snowfall so we can see Frosty!' they would always say. I was a star! I was a on the Christmas,

A-list! Then all these gadgets came around, and now kids don't care about going outside and playing with me. All they want to do is watch TV and play their stupid video games. It's not fair!"

"Frosty," replied Dalton, compassionately, "Christmas is not about fame or recognition. It's about joy. It's about being happy. I know it must have felt great to be on top, to be the talk of town, to be admired and respected. But Frosty, all that shit isn't what Christmas is about. It's about being with the ones who truly love you and doing the best you can to bring cheer to other's lives, even if they don't appreciate it."

"You know nothing about me, Dalton."

"Oh, but I think I do. I see guys like you at my bar every day. Poor souls drinking their sorrows away because they feel like others don't appreciate them or that life has dealt them a shitty hand. It's time to move on, Frosty. Put all that behind you and celebrate the Christmas spirit!"

Frosty turned his back to Dalton. He stood there for a minute, in silence. Finally, he spoke.

"Leave now. I never want to see any of you here again."

He slowly skidded away. The other snowmen followed. The heroes watched him and his band melt back into the forest.

"Poor Frosty." Cubit professed. "You think he'll ever regain the Christmas spirit?"

"I sure hope so, Cubit." Dalton responded.

The three then continued on towards Marshmallow Lake.


	3. Chaptes 5 & 6

**Road House: Dalton's Magical Christmas Adventure**

 **By R. M. S. Thornton**

 _Chapter 5: The Island of Misfit Drunks_

Marshmallow Lake is an enchanted body of water riddled with large fragments of white fluffy goodness, standing tall and mighty like icebergs against the soft current of this mystical lagoon. Upon exiting the Candy Cane Forest, the three heroes discovered a small wooden vessel on the shore. They sailed off, confident that in their navigation abilities, and comforted by the radiant purple green aura of the Northern Lights as they illuminated the night sky. Yet things quickly took a turn for the worst as the luminosity of the heavens was overshadowed by a dense layer of mist.

"Holy tolly!" Rubtub clamored, "This fog is thicker than Kirstie Alley on holiday! Does anyone have any idea where in tarnation we are?"

"I haven't the slightest idea." Cubit replied. "I can't see anything more than a few yards ahead."

They continued on, completely unaware of their surroundings until they felt a great thump. The boat abruptly stopped as the three heroes fell forward with the impact.

"What the hell did we hit?" asked Dalton.

Cubit got up and peered over the bow.

He spun around to the others with a look of excitement.

"It's land!" he exclaimed jubilantly.

"Excellent!" cried Dalton. "Let's explore and see if we can't find someone who can offer us directions."

The three exited the vessel. As the traversed the snowy landscape, the fog began to lift ever so slightly. Finally, they were able to make out a figure in the distance. It was short, black and white, and had what appeared to be a beak.

"Well I'll be a caterpillar's sperm donor, "Rubtub hollered, "it's a penguin!"

"But what's a penguin doing in the North Pole?" Cubit inquired.

"Let's ask him," said Dalton.

They approached the penguin.

"Hello, there." Dalton remarked.

The bird looked at them.

"My name is Dalton. These are my friends Cubit and Rubtub."

"Watt Wat Watt Watt Watttt," the creature squawked.

"Nice to meet you, too." Dalton replied.

"He says his name is Mr. Pickles," Dalton told his friends. "He just moved here from the South Pole. I guess he was transferred for work."

Cubit and Rubtub were shocked.

"Wait..." Cubit uttered, "you can understand him?"

"Sort of. I actually minored in Penguinese in college. I'm a bit rusty, but I can pretty much make out everything he's saying."

"Mr. Pickles," Dalton continued, "we were wondering if you would happen to know the way to Christmas Village.

"Watt Wat Wattt Wat Watt," Mr. Pickles replied.

"He said he doesn't know because he just moved here."

Mr. Pickles began rapidly flapping his wings.

"Watt Watt Wattttt, Watt Watttttttt!"

"Oh, great!" Dalton exclaimed.

The bouncer turned to his friends.

"Mr. Pickles says that just down the mountain there is a crystal palace. He has never been there before, but perhaps the occupants can help us find our way. He said he's willing to take us there."

"Yippie!" Cubit shouted. "This is great news."

"Watt Watt," Mr. Pickles muttered as he turned away from the heroes. He waddled towards the side of the hill. He then plopped down on his stomach.

Dalton lifted Cubit and Rubtub, placing them on either one of his shoulders. He then stood on Mr. Pickles' back bent knees. Mr. Pickles pushed off against the ground with his feet, propelling himself down the mountain as Dalton steered him down the slopes like a snowboard.

The wind gushed against their faces as they slide down the hillside. Soon they were able to make out a massive structure in the distance. It was silver and looked sort of like a giant splinter of quartz; yet its overall layout and design resembled that of a medieval European castle, with tall guard towers and a wide opening in its center. It was situated on the stop of a high, rocky peak with steep jagged edges.

They reached the bottom of the hill. Dalton jumped up and placed his friends on the ground.

Mr. Pickles stood up.

"Watt Wattt Wat Watt."

"This is as far as he will go," Dalton translated. "He said something about a restraining order. Didn't quite understand all of that. But he wishes us luck on our adventure."

"Thank you, Mr. Pickles." Dalton said.

"Yes, thank you very much." Cubit echoed.

"Watt Watt."

With that, Mr. Pickles spun around and toddled away.

The heroes strolled toward the castle and began to scale the wall's treacherous, serrated crevices. They eventually made it to the summit, exhausted.

"I hope this was worth it," Said Dalton, panting.

They entered through the palace's large opening.

The interior of the castle looked exactly like its outside, shrouded in extravagant silver crystal. The three walked further and noticed a large man sitting on what appeared to be an enormous silver, crystal throne. The man was wearing a blue dress suit with a black tie and white collared shirt. He had snowy white hair, which was poorly combed to one side.

The man was slumped back in the chair, his head draped forward. He was snoring loudly. Dalton cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, sir!" he shouted.

"Wha...What?" the man murmured as he shook his head.

He gazed up at the three.

"Who..." he stammered. "are you...pizza delivery?"

Dalton could smell the intense odor of alcohol coming off the man's breath as he spoke.

"Is he...intoxicated?" asked Cubit.

"I believe so," Replied Dalton.

Dalton took a closer look at the man. Suddenly, he realized who he was.

"Wait a minute... Dalton hesitated, "Senator Ted Kennedy!?"

"One in the same!" the man drunkenly bellowed. "I...I am kin...king of this island."

"What island is this?" Cubit inquired.

"Why the...the..." Senator Kennedy stuttered, "The Island of Misfit Drunks, of course!"

"The Island of Misfit Drunks?" Dalton repeated, perplexed.

"Yeppers!" the Senator roared. "And I...I...Ted Kennedy am its ruler. I might never be president, but...I..." he burped loudly, "but I have this!"

The Senator then squinted at Dalton.

"Why, hello there, beautiful." He said as worked up a smile. "I like that long, blonde,pretty hair of yours. How about you come...come up here and sit on Uncle Teddy's lap."

Dalton raised an eyebrow.

"You know I'm a guy, right? He informed the Senator.

"Shut up, hussy!" he screamed as he pointed at Dalton. "Don't you talk back to me! I drowned a bitch once and I'll do it again!"

He dropped his arm and keeled back over.

"UUUGGGHHH..." Kennedy moaned, "Why couldn't I have been like Jack and Bobby..."

He began snoring again as a long thin stream of drool poured out of his mouth.

"The Island of Misfit Drunks, eh?" Dalton remarked. "I've never even heard of this place. What do you think it is?"

Just as Dalton said that, large groups entered the room from all different directions. They were a conglomerate of all different types of people: male and female, tall and short, black and white, etc. All of them were hunched over, displaying various levels of intoxication.

A young woman with dark hair stumbleded forward.

"No one...no one ever wants to drink with us. No bar ever...ever lets us come in."

"It's...we're different," a fat man wearing a mesh hat tried to explain.

Then the entire assembly broke into song.

[To the tune of "The Most Wonderful Day of the Year"]

 _We're on the Island of Misfit Drunks_

 _Here we don't want to stay_

 _We want to party with Santa Claus_

 _In his magic gaze_

 _A pack full of drunks_

 _Means a sack full of spunk_

 _From the fattest truck driver_

 _To the sexiest hunk_

 _When Christmas Day is here_

 _The most wonderful day of the year_

 _A passed out patron waits for a bartender to shout_

" _Wake up! Don't you know your tab hasn't run out?"_

 _When Christmas Day is here_

 _The most wonderful day of the year_

 _Beer bottles galore, scattered on the floor_

 _There's no room for more_

 _But we still want more_

 _alcohol_

 _Jack Daniels for Jimmy_

 _Corona for Sue_

 _Mix drinks that will make you say, "How do you do?"_

 _When Christmas Day is here_

 _The most wonderful day of the year_

Some of the vocalists then stepped forward.

"How would you like to be a spotted hobo?" asked one.

"Or an alcoholic who rides an ostrich?" chimed in another.

"Or drunkard who vomits...jelly?" uttered yet another.

"We're all misfits!" they declared in unison.

The inebriated choir singers continued.

 _If we're on the Island of Unwanted Drunks_

 _We'll miss all the fun while others get crunk_

 _When Christmas Day is here_

 _The most wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful day of the year!_

The heroes glanced at one another, puzzled by the strange drunken spectacle they had just witnessed.

"Okay then..." said Dalton. "Thank you for that...but would any of you happen to know the way to Christmas Village?"

"Sure!" bellowed a skinny man clad in a puke-stained, white tank top. "You just head...east. You can take a boat...boats in the dock...many boats."

"Thanks..." Dalton replied.

"Listen...Dalton...," the man sputtered as he struggled to remain upright, "Please tell Santa...tell Santa that there are many drunks here. Drunks who need...," the man stumbled a bit "drunks who need a place to drink...many of us...we need...a place to drink."

"Okay," Dalton said, "I will deliver your message."

The bouncer turned to Cubit and Rubtub.

"Okay, let's get the fuck out of here," he whispered to them.

With that, the three heroes clamored back down the hill, unhooked the first boat they could find at the dock, and set off towards Christmas Village.

 _Chapter 6: The Frisky Elf_

The three heroes sailed for a while until finally they could make out a faint radiance in the distance.

"There is it!" Rubtub shouted in excitement, "Christmas Village!"

"I never thought I would be so happy to see it again." Cubit added.

They hit the shore, exited the vessel, and began hiking towards the village. As they got closer, the indistinct glimmer became more and more lucent, as the heroes could soon ascertain a magnificent array of dazzling colors emanating from the picturesque wood cottages which orderly lined the village streets.

They reached the township proper. Dalton was amazed. This quaint, cozy, close-knit community was like nothing he had ever encountered. The roofs of brown-stone residences were layered in a dense coat of snow and contained gray and black stoned chimneys, all of which emitted thick white smoke. The cottage windows emitted a pastel glow accompanied by a full spectrum of rays that beamed from the Christmas lights which lined the outside yards of the houses. They traversed cobble stone streets, which were festive and full of life. Every elf they passed greeted them with a "Hello" or a "Howdy."

They turned onto a wide street littered with various shops and bakeries. Facing them at the very end of the street was a large, tan, oak structure, at least 5 stories high. Four large, black smoke stacks could been seen on the roof, each discharging red and green smoke.

"There it is! Candy Cane Land!" Cubit exclaimed, " and this is Christmas Village's downtown area. And that big building up ahead is Santa's Workshop!"

"Incredible." Dalton uttered.

They strolled towards the Workshop, the lights from the business on either side illuminating the way. They saw a large figure standing in front of the Workshop. He was plump, man in a red suit, wearing white gloves and a thick black belt. He also sported a red hat with a white puffball on its end. He had a musky white beard and wore round spectacles.

"Ho, Ho, Ho!" he bellowed as he approached them. "Dalton! It's been way too long!"

"Nice to see you again, Santa." Dalton replied.

The two men embraced.

"Dalton," Santa pronounced, "thank goodness you're here. I was worried when you did not arrive on the Holiday Express. The conductor told me you had decided to go on foot."

"Yes," Dalton responded, "he hit a few hiccups alone the way, but we made it safe and sound."

"Very good." Santa remarked. "Dalton, please come with me. There is something I must show you."

The three heroes followed Santa to an old building off to the side of the workshop. Dozens of elves were clamoring outside of it. As they approached, the elves turned. They looked at Santa, and then saw Dalton. They began whispering amongst themselves.

Everything about the build seemed ancient, except a big, green, neon sign above the front door which read, "The Frisky Elf." Aside from that, however, the building was dark and appeared to be abandoned.

"Dalton," Santa stated, "This is The Frisky Elf. It's a bar which has existed for centuries. I created it so my elves would have a place to blow off steam after a long night's work. It gives my workers a place to kick a few back and party, which has become a necessity to productivity in the North Pole. If the elves don't have time to relax and drink, they can't focus during work hours. This is especially true on Christmas eve, by far the busiest night of the year."

Santa paused for a moment and sighed.

"Unfortunately, I've had to close the bar. You see, I recently received reports that unsavory characters, bent on destroying Christmas, were planning on crashing the bar. I thus had no choice but to shut it down. But now, my elves can't focus. If I don't reopen this bar, the work won't be done in time for my flight around the world. But if I open it, I put the safety of my elves at risk."

Santa took a step towards Dalton until he was just feet away from him. The elves suddenly became silent.

"So," continued Santa, "what I want to ask you is this. Dalton, with your skill in fighting, won't you protect my bar tonight?"

Dalton glanced at the bar, then the elves, then Cubit and Rubtub who were standing on either side of them.

"Of course I will," he replied.

The elves started cheering. "Hip Hip, Hooray! Hip Hip, Hooray!"

"Excellent!" Santa hollered.

Santa turned to his elves.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, "he howled, "The Frisky Elf is now open!"

"Hooray! Hooray!" the elves applauded.

Dalton entered the rustic establishment and turned on the lights. The bartenders took their positions behind the old, wooden, shabby bar. The elves began pouring in.

"Let's get tanked!" one of them yelled as they pushed their way into the watering hole.

Soon, the bar was overflowing with Santa's little helpers, all of them pounding beers, doing shots, and singing their favorite Christmas tunes.

Dalton stood, his right elbow resting against bar as he leaned back, Cubit and Rubtub standing at either side of him.

"Well I'll be a lesbian's cactus," Rubtub commented, "I've never seen this place so jam packed!"

"This is incredible!" Cubit added. "Everyone is having so much fun! Thank you, Dalton! This is all because of you!"

Suddenly, they heard a loud bang. The bar fell silent.

"What in tarnation was that!?" Rubtub yelled.

"I don't know," responded Dalton, "I think it came from outside."

He approached the door, with Rubtub, Cubit and the other elves following closely behind. Dalton and his cadre exited the bar. They could make out a black thick smoke in the foreground as fire blazed from several of the houses. Assembled outside of the tavern was a large group comprised of KGB Rodent Infiltrators and Spetsnaz, the latter of which were clad white and grey camouflage, black combat boots, and white ushankas displaying metal-red and gold sickle-and-hammers.

Positioned in the center of the gathering was a man in a man black wool overcoat.

"Dalton," Dimitri Staliv uttered in a brisk voice, "so nice to finally meet you in person. It appears Santa really has gone to great lengths to guard this establishment."

Dalton stood, fists clenched and eyes narrowed, the elves congregated behind him.

"I must say, Dalton," Dimitri continued, "considering your reputation, I thought you would be...bigger."

"Wow," Dalton replied, "I've never heard that one before."

"Infiltrators! Spetsnaz!" Dimitri Roared as he gestured at the bar. "ATTACK!"

The raccoons, Spetsnaz, Carlov and Frank charged.

"We're with you Dalton!" Cubit hollered

"Yeah!" thundered Rubtub, "this is our bar!"

Dalton striated his stance, left leg forward, and bent his knees.

Their opponents continued to advance.

"Brace yourselves!" Dalton shouted.

The mobs clashed. A raccoon lunged at Dalton, who greeted the critter with a right front kick to its chin. He then turned to his right, delving a quick jab followed by a mighty right hook to the face of a soldier.

The elves jointed in the melee, kicking, punching, scratching and biting every rodent and Spetsnaz that crossed their paths.

The fighting persisted as Dalton and Santa's little helpers held their own against the much larger group of communist cronies.

"Dalton!" shrieked Rubtub, pointing. "Look!"

Dalton turned. Dimitri was driving off in a white snowmobile, dragging a timber palette with several brown, hefty wooden boxes on top.

"He's stealing our alcohol!" Cubit cried. "Dalton, go after Staliv. We can hold them off!"

Dalton ran off after Dimitri as sped away.

The vehicle was too fast. Dalton broke off his chase and rushed towards stable located at the side of the workshop. He opened the wood gate. The reindeer were standing on either side of the structure. He jumped on the back of one and clicked his heels against his sides.

"On Rudolf!" Dalton commanded.

The reindeer galloped out of the entryway and took off into the air. Rudolf kept climbing until they were about several hundred feet off the ground.

Dalton scanned the area.

"Rudolf, night vision." He ordered.

Rudolf's nose lit up, a shiny red glow illuminating from it.

Dalton pointed. "There he is!" He exclaimed.

Rudolf dove at the Staliv like a torpedo bomber.

"Rudolf," Dalton said as they continued to plunge, "after I jump off, go back and help the others.

Rudolf nodded and grunted in acknowledgement.

They were within feed of Dimitri. Dalton jumped off onto Rudolf's back, and squatted. He then launched himself off the reindeer, tackling Dimitri and knocking him off the snowmobile. Both men rolled in the snow as the vehicle slowly came to a stop.

The adversaries stood up, drenched in snow and sweat. They were just feet away from each other.

Dimitri dusted some of the snow off then laughed.

"HAHAHAHA!" he chuckled. "Oh, Dalton. I have to hand it to you. You truly are one of the toughest people I know."

Dimitri took a few steps back.

"But..." He continued, "I think it's about time that you finally meet your match."

Dimitri lifted his right arm, placed his fingers against his mouth, and whistled.

Something was gradually approaching from the distance just behind Dimitri. It was a tall, muscular man. He had short spikey blonde hair. He was shirtless, only wearing bright red shorts and thin white shoes. His hands were covered in white hand wraps.

Dalton recognized him. It was Ivan Drago, the infamous Soviet boxer. But there was something different about him. His right arm, shoulder, and right side of his face were silver and metallic, minus a red radiance emitting from where his right eye should have been.

"I am sure you have heard of my associate," Dimitri pronounced, "Mr. Ivan Dago. As you can see, we've made a few improvements to him after his unfortunate loss in 1985. Meet the new and improved Robo Drago!

Drago stood next to Dimitri.

"I'll leave you two to talk things over." Dimitri said.

He turned around, walked over to the snowmobile and got on.

Dimitri spun his head around.

"Goodbye, Dalton." He commented as he speed off back towards Christmas Village.

Drago remained still, staring at Dalton, not blinking once.

"You will die." Drago said in an intimidating, monotone Russian accent.

Dalton got in his fighter's stance. This was going to be the toughest battle of his life.


	4. Chaptes 7 & 8

_Chapter 7: The Siberian Express_

Drago charged Dalton. The massive Russian fired a barrage of ferocious punches at him. The significantly smaller bouncer was able to dodge them, stepping back as he weaved. Drago's attacks were so powerful that Dalton could feel the wind gusts from the Russian's misses repel against his body.

Drago threw a right hook. Dalton bent his knees and ducked beneath the blow. He rose up and, as he did, delivered a right uppercut to Drago's chin followed by a left hook to the temple. The strikes had little effect on the enormous Slav as he countered with another fury of blows. Dalton again avoided these, blocking Drago's final strike, a right hook, with his left forearm. However, the force of the punch was so mighty that it knocked the bouncer off balance.

Dalton regained control and used the momentum from the Russian's blow to turn his body clockwise and hit Drago with a reverse round house kick. The precision of the kick was perfect as Dalton's right heel connected flawlessly with Drago's chin.

The boxer took a few paces back and shook his head quickly. He lifted his right hand, grasped his chain, and moved it slightly back and forth to make sure it was still place. He then dropped his arm and grinned.

He came at Dalton again. This time he was able to connect with a jab to Dalton's cheek. The bouncer had never felt a jab so powerful. Dalton was knocked back. Drago followed with a right cross, which Dalton weaved, but then connected with a left blow to the hero's gut.

Dalton keeled over. Drago then grasped Dalton's throat with his mechanical arm and hoisted him off the ground.

"You know," said Drago, his arm outstretched dangling the bouncer, "I used to fuck guys like you in the gulag."

Dalton raised his arms, made his hands into fists, and thrusted them downwards in a hammer like motion against Drago's wrist. The Russian lost his grip. Upon his feet touching the ground, the bouncer immediately propelled himself back up, smacking Drago with a right front kick to the middle of his face. The hero followed this with a left kick to Drago's right knee, knocking the big commie off balance.

Dalton then met Drago's head with a hail of punches, concluding this vehement combo with a savage right, roundhouse kick to the Russian's left temple.

Drago swung clockwise with the force of the kick and hit the floor. He laid there for a moment, perplexed as to how such a seemingly pipsqueak of a man could strike with such ferocity and devastation.

The big Russian shot back up, an intense rage permeating throughout his entire being. He rushed Dalton, unleashing a fury of blows. The bouncer successfully dodged several, but was finally caught one below the left eye. An immense pain pervaded from the spot, as it immediately began to swell. Caught off balance by the blow, Drago followed with a vicious right hook to Dalton's cheek. The force of the blow was so potent that the hero completed a full 360 degree spin before plummeting to the floor. Dalton lay there in a daze, mouth open and eyes blank, seemingly incapacitated by the ferocious strike. Drago smiled deviously. He turned away and began to stroll off, thoroughly convinced the fight was over. Drago took a few paces before, to his astonishment, he heard a noise.

"Yo, Drago."

The Russian rotated back around. Standing before him, face bloodied and mangled, was Dalton.

"I didn't hear no bell," he continued.

Drago was dumfounded.

"How is this possible!?" he thought to himself. "No man could endure such punishment and still be in condition to fight!"

Dalton positioned himself in his fighter's stance.

"You just going to stand there all day," he asked, "or are we going to finish this?"

Drago grimaced, clenched his fists, and charged. He threw another right hook, but this time Dalton was ready. He ducked underneath it, countering with a right uppercut to the chin, immediately followed by a left hook to the cheek. The Siberian Express came at Dalton once more with a left hook. Again, the bouncer bobbed below it, following it with a right front kick to the chin.

Drago threw punch after punch, each one failing to connect and each one tailed by a counter blow from Dalton. The Russian's knees started to wobble. He was having trouble standing as the world around him began to spin more and more with each of the hero's strikes. Dalton then hit the boxer with an enormous right hook, knocking out several of his teeth.

The commie struggled to remain afoot and clumsily staggered from side to side, his mind a complete haze. He finally caught a hold of himself, standing there, arms dangling from his sides. Dalton teed the boxer up for his final attack.

Hey, Drago!" ee roared. "Merry Fucking Christmas!"

Dalton unleashed a merciless right round house. The blow smacked Drago in the face. The Russian collapsed, knocked out cold.

Dalton watched as the boxer lay there, sparks emitting from the metallic part of his skull. The bouncer was hurt and exhausted, but he knew there was no time to waste. The Frisky Elf was under attack. He needed to return without hesitation in order to save it...to save Christmas. He started to jog towards Christmas Village when he heard a robotic female voice.

"Reserve power activated" it uttered.

As he turned to see what it was, he was met with a powerful left backhand. The bouncer hit the floor. He looked up. It was Drago, partially recovered from the battle. The Russian bent down and lifted a large nearby rock over his head, several times greater than Dalton's head. Drago stood over the bouncer, preparing to crush his skull.

"Drago," Dalton pronounced, "look at yourself! Look at what you have become! Is this really what you want!?"

Drago remained still, seemingly emotionless.

"Christmas is a time of joy," he continued, "a time to let go of all your animosity and hate and instead reflect upon all the good things in life; to appreciate the stuff we really cherish, like friends and family."

Drago's left eye began to twitch and his arms shook.

"I know you don't want to do this, Drago. You might be part machine, but I see the human side in you. And within that side is the Christmas Spirit, just waiting to burst out."

Drago was trembling all over now. His head spun back and forth. He screamed, stepping forward as he catapulted his arms headlong. Dalton closed his eyes, expecting the worse. The boxer hurled the rock, which landed with a large thud.

Dalton opened his eyes. It had plopped just feet to his ride side. He glanced towards Drago, who was clutching the robotic region of his head. He pulled, removing a multitude of various colored wires.

The Russian then keeled over, hands on his knees, panting. Dalton got up and approached him.

"They controlled me for so long," Drago said, still gasping, "that I forgot how to think for myself."

They stood in silence for a moment. Then Dalton spoke.

"Drago, Staliv's army is too big for me to face alone. If he is not stopped, millions of children all over the world, from America to Russia, will wake up without a Christmas tomorrow morning."

Dalton took a few steps towards him, until he was just inches away from the boxer.

"Drago, please, I need your help...Christmas needs your help."

The bouncer extended his right arm, his elbow bent and hand facing towards the sky.

"Will you help me?"

Drago slowly stood up. He looked at Dalton for a few seconds. The Russian then reached out, grasping the bouncer's outstretched hand. It was an embrace like none other before it; a pact forged in unadulterated badassery and 80s machismo, the likes of which had never been witnessed before in recorded history.

"Let's do this!" Drago exclaimed.

They relinquished their grips.

"By the way," Dalton remarked, "you used to fuck guys like me in the gulag?"

"Oh..." Drago responded, "yeah...I honestly don't know why I said that. I get really weird sometimes when I'm fighting. I should probably seek help for that."

"Yeah...probably...," Dalton agreed.

With that, the two men surged towards Christmas Village, determined to rescue the world's jolliest holiday.

 _Chapter 8: The Most Wonderful Brawl of the Year_

Dalton and Drago returned to Christmas Village. It was a grizzly scene. The square near the Frisky Elf was flooded with elves, raccoons, and Spetsnaz, all battling fiercely amongst the smoke and flames which engulfed the once pleasant little town. Santa's little helpers and the reindeer were holding their own against the Red onslaught, but they were greatly numbered and on the verge of being overrun.

Dalton and Drago jumped off the snowmobile.

"We have no time to waste!" Dalton exclaimed. "Elves need our help."

The two men sprinted towards the fight. Dalton encountered a soldier mercilessly stomping on a defenseless, battered and bloody elf. The Spetsnaz turned as he heard the clamor of Dalton's footsteps, but upon turning was met with a right cross to the nose, immediately knocking him to the floor.

"Holy Jimmy Carter's peanuts, look!" Rubtub bellowed as he head-butted a raccoon, "It's Dalton!"

"Dalton!" Cubit shouted as he punched an unlucky soldier's genitals, "You came back!"

"Are you kidding," Dalton said as he uppercutted a lunging raccoon, "I wouldn't miss this for the world!"

Carlov, Frank and Staliv stepped out of the tussle and, to their astonishment, saw Dalton and Drago fighting side by so.

"So, Drago," Staliv remarked, "you betray us."

Drago turned towards Staliv. "No, you betrayed all of us when you attacked Christmas!"

"So be it!" Staliv angrily replied. "You will die a bourgeois death!"

The scuffle continued, with the elves and reindeer fighting even more furiously, their morale greatly strengthened by Dalton's and Drago's presence. Their spirits were lifted even further when they saw their boss, Kris Kringle, waltz onto the battlefield.

Staliv turned towards Santa.

"Well," he snickered. "if it isn't the old bundle of joy himself."

"Staliv!" Santa bellowed. "I should have known you were behind this. Just what do you think you're doing?"

"What's it look like!?" he replied. "I'm destroying Capitalism's favorite holiday! Soon, you're bar will be destroyed and all of Christmas Village with it!"

Staliv pointed at Santa. "Get him!" He commanded.

Three Spetsnaz began to approach.

"Ho Ho Ho!" Santa hollered. "Well...in that case..."

Santa removed his white gloves, followed by his by red coat, revealing his large pale belly and muscular chest, the latter of which was covered by a thick coat of white hair. His arm muscles were bulging as if he had been pumping iron all day. Santa stood at the ready.

"Looks like it's time for me to go jolly on your asses!" he roared.

The first soldier lunged at Santa. Kringle greeted him with a powerful head-butt to the middle of his face. The Russian collapsed. Saint Nick then quickly rotated to his left, slamming another incoming soldier with his massive belly. The third henchman then came at him. Santa reached down, picking up a large red and white candy cane, which was approximately the height and width of a baseball bat. The solider leaped at Santa. As he was in the air, the old bundle of joy swung the cane with arms. The candy cane shattered as it connected with the soldier's head. He flew to one side and lay in the snow, bleeding and unconscious.

Santa then charged into the thicket of the melee. A raccoon was slowly making his way behind Dalton. Saint Nick caught the little critter by his tail and violently slammed him several times against the ground before tossing him into the distance. Dalton and Santa stood back to back, fighting off the oncoming onslaughts.

"This reminds me of that time we were at that bar outside Detroit," Dalton said as he grappled a raccoon, continuing kneeing its face. "Remember that biker gang we tousled with?"

"Of course," Santa responded as he broke a soldier's jaw with a right hook, "we sure taught them what it means to be on the naughty list!"

"So here we are again," Dalton commented.

"Same shit, different town," Santa and Dalton remarked in unison.

The brawl continued with Dalton, Drago, Santa, Rubtub, Cubit and the rest of the elves and reindeer battling bravely against the Red offensive. But despite their best efforts, the heroes were quickly being over-powered. Soviet reinforcements soon arrived, replenishing the ranks of their fallen comrades. The exhausted defenders of the holiday season knew they couldn't hold the enemy off much longer.

"There are just too many of them!" Cubit shouted as he flung snowballs at the invaders. "We are going to be overrun soon!"

"Hold your ground!" commanded Dalton. "We fight until the last man!"

The defenders were surrounded, their backs facing the entrance of the bar. The situation looked dire; but then, they heard something.

"What's that noise!?" asked Drago.

They heard it again. It sounded like the bellow of a Viking horn.

Dalton smiled.

"I know what that is." he said.

Off in the distance, Dalton could make out the shape of a multitude of white figures. It was the snowmen, and Frosty was at their helm.

"Hey, assholes!" Frosty yelled, wielding his ax.

The Communists turned around and looked in shock.

"You fuck with Christmas, you fuck with us all!" Frosty continued.

There was then another cry. It was Mr. Pickles!

"Watt watt watt watt watt watt!" he roared, as he raised a dark crow bar with one of his wings.

Then there was another shout. Dalton peered towards the noise to see a large group of stumbling individuals with a black, beat up car at their center. Hoisted outside of the driver's side window was the head of Senator Ted Kennedy.

"Hey...fuckheads!" he stammered, "Me and my friends going to...going to kick your asses! Now, all of you assholes get in my car! I'm going...I'm going to drown all you mother fuckers!"

There was another holler. A posse of massive cupcakes, about 4 feet high and with big eyes and wide mouths on their bodies, congregated near the drunks. Each one had a different color frosting covering its head with varying shades of sprinkles. They had long legs and arms, similar to Rubtub. They were carrying an assortment of objects such as golf clubs, chains, swords, crow bars, nunchucks, and a range of other items which could be utilized as weapons.

"The Cupcake People are also with you, Dalton!" one of them yelled.

The Russians were bewildered, especially Staliv, who never could have foreseen this turn of events.

"Well, this just got a whole lot more interesting," Dalton remarked as he smirked.

"Snowmen, attack!" Frosty shrieked. Then Frosty and the snowmen charged.

"WATT WATT WWWAAATTTTT," Mr. Pickles hollered as he slid towards the melee.

"Attack, go forward, drunks!" Ted Kennedy bellowed as he sped off, swerving madly, his chums following close behind.

"Forward, Cupcakes!" one of them yelled as they advanced.

With the addition of these new combatants, the odds were now in the heroes' favor. Now surrounded, the Russians were getting pummeled. Senator Kennedy slammed his car into a group of unlucky Soviets.

"I smite you like my bootlegging father smited our British allies during World War II!" he bellowed, as the wheels of his automobile crushed his enemies.

The extra help freed up Dalton to take on the opposing army's leadership. Only Frank stood between him and Staliv. The Russian was holding a long wooden bat which he swung wildly at the bouncer. Dalton was able to dodge these blows, but still couldn't get close enough to land a strike of his own.

The bouncer then heard a high-pitched voice.

"Dalton!" it said.

He looked around. It was little Timmy.

"Dalton, I want to help!"

"Timmy, get out of here!" Dalton ordered. "It's unsafe!"

Frank came at the hero again with another swipe. Dalton dodged it, but in the process, he tripped over a small rock. He hit the ground and lay there defenseless. Frank rushed him again in an attempt to finish off the hero, once and for all.

"NNNOOO!" Timmy screamed as he jumped between Dalton and Frank, catching the Russian's blow on his left forearm.

The strike immediately shattered the boy's arm. Timmy keeled over in pain and began to weep. His shrieks of agony echoed throughout the village. Everyone stopped fighting and stared. Frank stood there, eyes wide, mouth open, in shock at what he had done. He dropped his weapon, fell to his knees, and grasped his face in horror.

"IT HURTS! IT HURTS!" the boy screeched as tears ran down his cheeks.

Santa rushed over to him.

"It will ok, Timmy," he assured him as he knelt down.

Saint Nick then held both his hands inches from Timmy's arm and released what appeared to be some kind of glittery essence, like fairy dust.

The pain immediately subsided. Timmy stopped crying. He waved his arm. It was completely healed. Santa helped the child to his feet.

"Well...," Staliv shouted at his men, "what the hell are you all waiting for!? Attack!"

The raccoons and soldiers remained stationary, glancing at each other. Carlov then stepped forward.

"Sir, no disrespect, but perhaps we should call this off."

"Excuse me?!" Staliv replied angrily.

Frank jumped to his feet.

"I agree, sir." He added. "It's just...maybe we have taken this too far. I mean, it is Christmas after all."

"Hmmm..." Staliv pondered. "Is this how you all feel?"

Frank, Carlov, the Spetsnaz and raccoons all nodded.

"Well then," Staliv said, "I guess I have no choice."

Staliv lifted his left arm revealing a gold and red watch with a black strap. He pressed down on the face of the watch with his right index and middle fingers. A red metal alloy protruded from the time piece and slowly began to engulf his entire body. Everyone stared in astonishment. Once it covered his entire body, the alloy expanded until it formed a large titanium robotic suit, covering Staliv's entire body, with the exception his head. The armor was bright red, over 8-feet tall and 5-feet wide.

The breastplate of the suit then opened from either side, revealing a small yellow device, which gave off a bright green florescence from its center. It was a nuclear bomb! Green numbers above the device began to count down from 5 minutes.

"I guess if you want something done," Staliv remarked. "you have to do it yourself. Let's see how you all enjoy Christmas once the North Pole is incinerated into radioactive ash!"

Cries of panic permeated from the ensemble. Several soldiers and raccoons lunged at their leader, but were easily swatted away with his powerful metallic arms.

Staliv rotated towards Dalton. He lifted both arms and pointed them at the bouncer. They opened wide and two, large, gold AK-47s erected from either one.

"Say goodbye, Dalton!" Staliv screamed.

With that, the Soviet unleased a furry of bullets. Dalton felt the projectiles penetrate his skin, his body gyrating with each hit. The bouncer fell on his back, lying on the cold, snowy ground, blood gushing from numerous parts of his body.

Everything was becoming hazy now. The world seemed to be drifting away— and then, blackness.

 _The End?_

© Copyright 2017 by R. M. S. Thornton


	5. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9: A Christmas Miracle_

Dalton came to. He was standing in a large room littered with small, round, auburn tables, each one orbited by several like-colored chairs. To his left were a few steps which led to several empty pool tables. Nestled in the middle of the room, situated above what appeared to be a small dance floor, was a small stage lined with a thin, bright red carpet. Like the rest of the room, it was completely vacant.

Dalton knew where he was. It was the Double Deuce. But it looked different. He had never seen it so empty, so clean. In fact, it was so immaculate that Dalton at first barely recognized it. Sunlight gleamed through the windows, glistening off the spotless wood floor, which was strange, considering it had just been nighttime.

He turned to his right and peered over at the bar; and then he saw him. A lone man sitting on one of the brown, timber stools. He wore a plain black t-shirt, blue jeans, and tanned, worn-down, cowboy boots. He had long, thick, grayish hair, which fell down to the bottom of his neck like leaves from a weeping willow, punctuated by a short grayish beard.

He was slightly crouched over the bar, holding a bottle-neck beer glass in his right hand, with his left arm resting against the bar. His palm covered the beer's label (since every beer distiller contacted refused to sponsor this story). He slowly sipped from this drink, his elbow cushioned firmly against the bar's oak exterior.

Dalton couldn't believe what he was seeing. It was him! It was Wade Garret.

"Wade?" Dalton asked.

The man stopped drinking, rotated his head towards Dalton, a strand of hair dangling in front of the left side of his face. He gave a faint smile.

"Hey there, amijo," he responded.

He turned his head back around and stared into the emptiness of the bar.

"It...it can't be..." Dalton stammered, "you're...you're dead."

Wade chuckled as he took another taste of his beer.

"Bouncers never die, kid. We just find a new bar."

Wade stood up and approached Dalton until he was inches away from him.

"It's been a long time, kid," he said. "How's the Doc doing? How you managed to snag a piece of ass like that is beyond me."

Dalton remained silent, still in utter disbelief at what he was witnessing.

Was he dead? Was he dreaming? Hallucinating? Dalton finally worked up the nerve to speak.

"Wade, how is this possible? And where are we?"

Wade gazed around for a moment.

"It appears we're in the Double Deuce."

"Yeah," replied Dalton, "I know that. But why are we here? And how did I get here? I was just in the North Pole!"

"Well...let's just say this is kind of like a transitional establishment. You come in here, have a few drinks, then at the end of the night, leave through the back door."

"Leave to where?" Asked Dalton.

Wade smiled. "Beyond."

Dalton stared at Wade, his mouth slightly open.

"So you're saying...the Double Deuce...is a doorway to the other side?"

"Well...this isn't the real Double Deuce. The 'doorway' is whatever one imagines it to be; so let's just say you're running the show."

"I don't believe it," Dalton muttered as he looked around. He glanced back at his former mentor.

"Wade, there are some things I want to say you. Some things I should have told you when you were alive. You meant so much..."

"Save it!" Wade interrupted. "I'm not into all this sappy emotional bullshit. Plus, we don't have much time. What I'm about to tell you is crucial."

Wade took a gulp of his beer and continued.

"You have the Christmas Spirit inside of you, kid. I can feel it. It flows through you like sweat running down a stripper's ass. You're now ready, kid. You're ready to unleash it. But no one can make you do it. You have to choose; choose whether you want to go back and use it or move on."

He raised both his arms and pointed in either direction.

"You can walk through the front door and rejoin the party, or exit by the back door and call a night. It's your call."

Dalton gazed in both directions then looked back at Wade.

"You already know what I'm going to do, don't you?" Dalton stated.

Wade grinned and placed his left arm on the bouncer's adjacent shoulder. He leaned in, looking directly into Dalton's eye.

"Just do me a favor;" Wade muttered in a low voice, "you give that communist son of a bitch Staliv a hard knocks Christmas present from all of us here in the Free World."

Dalton beamed. "It will be my pleasure."

Wade nodded then turned around.

"See ya on the other side, amijo" Wade said as made his way towards the back door.

"Wade...wait!" Dalton hollered.

Wade swung back around. Dalton paused for a moment.

"Is this real or is this all in my head?"

Wade stood staring at him for what seemed like an eternity.

"Seriously, Dalton!?" Wade shot back. "Of all the stupid fucking questions! I know your mind, kid. If this was some kind of dream, you'd be surrounded by a bunch of busty, half-naked, amoral, 22-year-olds right now instead of talking to me."

Dalton pondered this for a few seconds.

"Oh yeah." Dalton remarked. "I guess you're right."

Wade twisted back around.

"Adios, kid."

He walked out the back door and was gone.

Dalton strolled toward the front door. He pushed it open and peered out. He couldn't see anything—just a bright, blinding, white light. He hesitated for a moment then strode through.

Dalton lay on the ground, his lifeless body riddled with bullet holes and soaked in blood. Everyone looked down at him in utter despair. Little Timmy knelt beside Dalton's corpse and placed his hand on the bouncer's limp arm.

"Please don't die, Dalton!" Timmy sobbed, tears flowing down face. "We need you! Please, Dalton!"

Timmy's face sunk.

"I believe in Christmas," he said in an audible whisper.

Cubit took a few paces and placed his hand on Timmy's shoulder.

"I also believe in Christmas," Cubit said.

"I believe in Christmas," Frosty echoed.

"So do I," added Drago.

"Gosh dolly!" yelled Rubtub swinging his ring arm, "I believe in Christmas, too!"

"We believe in Christmas!" shouted the elves in unison.

"So do we!" cried the Cupcake People.

"Christmas . . . believe in...I do...," Ted Kennedy drunkenly stuttered.

"Watt Watt Watt Watttt," said Mr. Pickles.

"Natt Natt Natt Natt Natt Natt," the Raccoons joined in.

"So do we," Chimed in the Spetsnaz.

"I, too, believe in Christmas," said Frank.

,

Carlov sprang forward and shouted, "We all believe in Christmas!"

And then what happened? Well, in the North Pole they say that Dalton's badassness grew three sizes that day.

A glowing gold essence began to drizzle down upon Dalton, like a gentle snow. Dalton's body began to hover. Timmy and Cubit jumped back in amazement. Dalton floated upword until he was upright, his feet dangling inches off the ground. Then his entire body began to glow. His shirt and jeans radiated bright green and red lights, respectively. His long hair gracefully fluttered above his head as if it was being blown by a powerful, yet gentle, wind.

"What is happening!?" Carlov shouted.

"It's the Christmas spirit!" Santa exclaimed. "It's infused itself within Dalton's body!"

Dalton's feet hit the ground. He opened his eyes. He saw Dimitri Staliv in his metallic suit, his back turned to him. He was laughing.

Hey, Staliv!" Dalton shouted.

Staliv's eyes widened. He swung around and gawked at Dalton in astonishment.

"How did?...How are you?..." he stuttered.

"What's wrong, Dimitri?" Dalton asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost, or more accurately, a spirit."

Staliv grimaced.

"No matter!" he screamed. "I will finish you off this time once and for all!"

He lifted his arms and fired at Dalton. The bouncer lifted his hand, his palm facing towards the oncoming bullets. They reached within inches; but Dalton stopped them in midair. They hung for a moment, motionless, then fell to the ground. Staliv's mouth fell open.

"NO!" he shrieked. "This is impossible!"

The smoking guns entered back into his arms. He charged Dalton. Dalton stood stationary. Staliv came at him with a blow. Dalton dodged it, then the next one, and the one after that. Staliv's machine moved faster with each attack. Yet the bouncer was unhittable. He was too quick.

Staliv threw a colossal right hook at his adversary. Dalton caught the strike with his left hand, his fingers crushing the titanium like it was wet clay.

"My turn," Dalton said.

He stretched his arm back then swung it forward, hurling a vicious right cross. The impact from Dalton's fist shattered the seemingly impenetrable metallic exoskeleton like it was Styrofoam. Dalton followed it with a right hook to the machine's body. The bouncer threw strike after strike, each one faster and more powerful than the next. The sequence of blows became so rapid that Dalton's arm movements were soon a blur and looked as if Dalton had created a small tornado, one which was unleashing its deadly force against Staliv's once formidable armor.

Dalton stopped. Staliv's suit took a few clumsy steps back. It was battered and spewing sparks. The bouncer took a few paces towards the Russian, then planted himself in his fighter's stance, left leg forward. Dalton then repositioned his body several inches to his right.

"What is he doing!?" cried Santa.

"He's going to do it!" exclaimed Timmy. "He's going to do the Christmas Kick!"

Dalton rotated his head, looking behind him.

"Hey, Dimiti." he chided. "I have bad news."

Dalton swung his head back around.

"You've been put on the naughty list, mother fucker!"

Dalton then rotated his entire body counterclockwise, his right heel pounding Staliv with a hit so massive and ferocious that it created an explosion, the force of which knocked the onlookers to the ground.

Everyone lay there for a moment before slowly picking himself back up. Smoke covered the area where Dalton and Staliv had been battling. About a minute later the vapor cleared. Dalton's figure returned, no longer emitting a glow, his clothes back to normal. A smoldering metal lump of what remained of Staliv's armor lay at his feet as well as fragments of the nuke, which had been safely destroyed, thanks to the mystical energy of the Christmas Kick.

"You did it, Dalton!" Timmy exclaimed exuberantly. "You saved Christmas!"

Dalton placed his right hand on Timmy's head and gently flustered his hair.

"Just another day in the life of a bouncer," professed Dalton.

Dalton took a few steps towards Staliv. He was lying with his back pressed up against a large rock. His once formidable robotic armor was now shattered, the shards covering his body in random patches. Staliv was woozy and bobbled his head as if he had just been run over by a Mack Truck. Dalton stood over Staliv. He positioned his hand on Dimitri's face and grasped one of his cheeks.

"Now," Dalton said, "let's see who you really are!"

Dalton pulled, tearing off the fake skin and hair from Staliv's face. Everyone gasped!

"I don't believe it!" cried Santa. "All this time, Dimitri Staliv was actually..."

Santa paused and tilted his head, scratching the top of it with one finger.

"I..." Santa hesitated. "I have no idea who this is."

Everyone glanced at each other.

"Wait!" shouted Carlov. "I know him! He's that guy from that movie! You know...the fat guy who makes documentaries!"

"Oh yeah!" Frank added. "He's that big guy from that film! Um...what was it called...I think... _Robert and Me_. Yes, that's it! It was called _Robert and Me_!"

Just then, the unmasked figure spoke.

"It's _Roger and Me_ , you idiot! And I'm not some 'big guy.' My name is Michael Moore, the greatest documentarian of all time!"

"But why?" asked Santa. "Why would you want to destroy Christmas?"

"Because," Michael hissed, "Christmas represents everything I hate! You people tell yourselves that Christmas embodies joy and happiness. But in reality, it's a racist, misogynist holiday dedicated to the unholy worship of corrupt capitalist ideals such as consumerism and conspicuous consumption. It represents the evil that defines the United States of America, a country built upon greed and resentment!"

Dalton crossed his arms and knowingly gazed at Michael.

"But there's another reason, isn't there?" Dalton said. "I see it in your eyes, Michael. This wasn't just about destroying America. This was about something much deeper."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Michael scoffed nervously.

Dalton bent down and looked directly into his eyes.

"Is that so?" Dalton inquired.

The two men stared each other down for few moments before Michael finally cracked.

"Fine!" Michael admitted. "It wasn't just about taking down capitalist America!"

Michael turned his gaze away from Dalton and peered down, crestfallen.

"Every Christmas it's the same," he moaned. "I'll be walking through a mall or a grocery store, and children will approach me and tell me what they want for Christmas. Me! Michael Moore! The greatest film maker who has ever lived; and yet these little brats assume I'm Santa Clause just because I'm big boned and have facial hair that turns grayer every year. I can't tell you how many times during the holidays I've been sitting and enjoying myself at a restaurant or a cafe when, out of the blue, some kid will run up, jump in my lap, and start blabbering on about what consumer goods he or she wants for Christmas. This never happens with a beautiful woman, mind you, but a bunch of smelly, disgusting children who have been brain washed into worshiping this awful bourgeoisie holiday along with an old fat man in a red suit!"

Michael glanced back at Dalton.

"And then people like you come around: in shape, good looking guys, with Chip n' Dale physiques telling the world that 'Christmas is a time of cheer.' Maybe for you it is! But for me, it's a nightmare! And while you're out there adulating this crooked holiday and body shaming me with your muscular built, I'm being constantly being humiliated by children mistaking me for an obese elf!"

Michael lifted his arm and pointed at Claus.

"Fuck you, Santa!" he screamed. "Fuck you! Fuck your reindeer! Fuck your elves! And fuck your Christmas!"

The crowd stood in silence, shocked by Michael's brazen disrespect and contempt for Santa and Christmas.

"Well..." replied Santa. "Looks like someone doesn't understand the true meaning of Christmas."

"Oh, save your 'Christmas-splaining,' you white-bearded asshole!" the filmmaker yelled.

"And as for you," he continued, staring at Dalton, "this isn't the end! No...not by a long shot! The Cold War is far from over!"

"Oh, yeah?" responded Dalton, crossing his arms.

"The 80's are over, Dalton. The days of celebrating irrational patriotism and thick-headed machismo are a thing of the past. A new era is upon us, one which adheres to the principles of political correctness, micro-aggressions, and over-sensibility. Soon, almost everything anyone does will offend somebody. The resulting strife from everyone's little artificial hissy fits will lead to chaos, with people of sound mind failing to speak up for fear of being labeled a bigot or narrow-minded or even worse, POLITICALLY INCORRECT!

Everyone gasped when they heard the last two words.

Moore continued, "It is in the midst of that turmoil when we will take over. We will censor dissent, modify culture, and reshape society, thus creating a new order, one which outwardly celebrates diversity and tolerance, yet a culture that will destroy all those even slightly opposed to its ideals. And before any of these fools knows it, the Soviet Union will have risen again, but this time on American soil. And then, once that happens, we will eliminate Christmas once and for all! For Christmas is on the wrong side of history! MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Dalton stood still, glaring at Michael. Then he spoke.

"You're right, Mikey. Things may change—some for the better, some for the worse. But there's one thing for sure—as long as there are people like me and my colleagues here living on this earth, people who embrace the joy and love of Christmas, we will always prevail."

Santa gestured at the elves.

"Take him away!" he ordered. "I'm sure the authorities would like to have a little chat with Mr. Moore."

Several elves grabbed the documentarian by the arms and dragged him away into the distance. Santa turned to the bouncer.

"Thank you, Dalton. Thank you for saving Christmas."

"It was my pleasure, Santa."

The big bundle of joy then turned to everyone else.

"I have an idea!" he bellowed. "How about we all go to the Frisky Elf and celebrate! Everyone is welcome: Elves, Reindeer, Snowmen, Russians—the whole lot of you!"

Little Timmy tugged on Santa's coat.

"Santa, can me and the rest of the children come as well?"

"Well..." Santa replied. "The North Pole technically does not have a drinking age...Oh, what the hell! Sure! Given the circumstances, I think the kids can get a pass on being naughty for just one night!"

Everyone laughed.

"That's our Santa!" Dalton said.

The assemblage clamored into the bar and began to drink. Carlov stood on a chair and held up a shot glass.

"A toast!" he hollered. "To Dalton—for showing us the true meaning of Christmas!"

"Yes!" Frank added. "And to the end of the Cold War! From this moment forward, America and Russia shall always be allies. Yes, there will never be any tensions between our two countries again! _Na Zdorovie_! Or as they say in English, Cheers!"

Everyone clinked glasses and took a drink.

"Let us enter as strangers and leave as degenerates!" Carlov shouted.

With that, the bar patrons partied until the crack of dawn. And it was the most wonderful and magical Christmas of them all.

 _The End_

© Copyright 2017 by R. M. S. Thornton


End file.
